Phoenix Rising
by Kacey.DP.Holmes
Summary: Jim needed control, and this time we went to far. (cutting, child abuse, I'm sorry...) kirk/spock


He needed to leave the bridge before he lost control. Or what little control he still had.

He felt his hands shaking. His vision was starting to fade from reality, wheeling back into memories that, given half a chance, he would have forgotten.

He could feel the panic unfurling inside of him, it's smoky tendrils nudging at his heart and tightening around his throat so that his breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. So

he made some half-assed, mumbled excuse and left as quickly as he could without raising to much suspicion.

He ran, ignoring the salutes and cries of "captain!" that followed him as he passed by the ensigns and lieutenants. At first he hadn't been sure where he was going, but he ended up in his own cabin after a couple minutes of sprinting down the bright, sterile corridors of the Enterprise.

Once he was in his cabin, He locked the door and retreated further still, until he was sitting on the edge of the tub in the now-locked bathroom.

He reached for the drawer that held the silvery blade and replicated bottle of whiskey, waving away the guilt he felt for intending to break the promise he had made to McCoy. The one that should have stopped this practice, but he needed control over his fear and over his own pain, and this is the only way he could get it on the ship.

He took a deep swig out of the full bottle of whiskey before picking back up the blade.

He quickly inspected the blade, turning it in his calloused hands, it had been his father's and then his brother's, and after they had both died, it had found it's way into his hands.

That still surprised him.

He pulled at the hem of his yellow uniform shirt and tugged it off his body, exposing the black, short sleeve fitted black t-shirt that he always wore underneath it and his heavily scarred arms.

He placed the knife in-between two of the scars that ran parallel across both his left and right arms and pulled, leaving behind a weeping red line on his muscled upper arm.

He had scars all over his body, some faded with time and medical attention, some still raised and angrily red. The ones on his chest and back had been inflicted by enemies who had a strong distaste for starfleet, by an alcoholic mother who couldn't stand the memories that were brought up through the boy's blond hair and ocean-deep blue eyes, and by an abusive step father who just wanted satisfaction, and didn't care that it was coming from a less-than-willing boy who was well below half his age. But the ones that decorated his arms and legs were mostly self inflicted.

He was smart, of course, and kept them above his knees and lower half of his fore arm, so that there was no chance of the uniform betraying him. But they were still there. And Bones, the only person who knew and had seemed to care thought he had quit adding to his rather large collection. He hadn't.

He looked at the new cut on his left arm for a few seconds before adding two more a little higher up.

He took another large drink from his quickly diminishing bottle. He was starting to feel fuzzy, disconnected. He was getting to where he wanted to be.

He added a few incisions, each directly below the other, on his right arm with a surgeons precision. McCoy had once told him that with his steady hands he could have made an amazing doctor. He disagrees. He still can't believe he's a captain on a star fleet ship.

After a few minutes of drinking and wandering thoughts he notices his grip on reality is looser than he'd like when his vision becomes black around the edges. He thinks for just a second that he should call Bones, that he's really gone too far this time. But he soon dismisses it, it's not like he'd be too great of a loss for anyone anyway, he's known that for a long time.

When he wakes up he's under the glare of the medical bay's ridiculously harsh lights.

He soon realizes his shirts gone, there's an IV stuck in his arm, and his arms have been bandaged where there was once exposed and bleeding flesh.

He sits up and looks around. The first thing he sees is his Vulcan, Spock, sitting beside the bed he's laying on with an expression that looks like a dangerous cross between worry and anger.

The second thing is a pissed off doctor. A very pissed off doctor who almost immediately starts yelling at him.

"Damn it Jim! You told me you'd stopped, that it was an old habit. You could have killed yourself! You're just lucky the damn hobgoblin found you when he did-" Spock looked like he wanted to say something, but bit back whatever words had been dancing on the edge of his tongue "Do you have any idea how close you were to dying?!" His voice and expression softened before his last words came out. "How much it would have hurt had you died."

He looked up, a surprised and slightly disbelieving expression crossed his face, and it broke the other men's hearts.

He didn't think that he would be missed.

When McCoy's mouth swung open again the commander shot him a silencing look before delivering his own words to Kirk.

"Captain, you are respected by those who work with you every day and are idolized by the young ensigns who work around you. You are a great captain. And you are a better friend." The word friend had shocked expressions appear on both the doctor and the captain's face, one because the half Vulcan had claimed a friend and the other because he was stunned someone would voluntarily count him amongst their friends.

Spock paused and took in a deep breath of air before continuing "You cannot blame yourself for the actions of others, and it is illogical for you to harm yourself deliberately."

McCoy had quickly picked up on the fact that his role in this conversation had died out quickly and slipped out of the room, but stayed in the hall so that he could hear the men speaking.

Jim let his head hang in what could have been interpreted as resignation. But for what?

For the fact that he survived, that he let yet another person down, that he was lost, that it really all was his fault, and he knew it.

"I'm fine, Spock, I'm fine. And I don't need any help."

"There are multiple definitions to fine"

His eyes widen exponentially and you can see how much pain he's in, both physically and mentally. But he does what he always does, lies his way through it, pushing it away with fake smiles. He reaches over and pulls the IV from his arm, the commander reaches over and takes his hand before he stands to go.

After moments that felt like years, Jim broke the suffocating silence.

"You're both wrong. It is my fault. People around me get killed, or worse. I've been a pain to everybody whose ever laid eyes on me since I was born, all's you have to do is ask Bones. I've been an issue for him since the academy. I figured if I went into space that there's a limited amount of damage I can do, but then you look at Khan and this whole damn five year trip so far, and you realize that I was wrong. Again."

He had tried to keep his voice steady, but had failed, and the words had degenerated into the body wracking sobs that he couldn't seem to control.

Spock carefully put his hands around Kirk's legs and torso and lowered him to the pristine white, linoleum floor. He sat in a variation of the indian style position and pulled the crying Jim onto his lap. They sat entwined in that position, the commander rubbing circles on his back and whispering reassurances into his ear until Jim's tears had slowed and until the large shudders that had wracked his body had calmed, leaving behind shivers.

They stayed together for hours, no words being said, because why would they need to. Everything was understood immediately, and there would be no more secrets.

They did not know when it started, but rather when it ended. And their minds were separate, but one, as were there hearts. And they knew that they were whole together.

Jim knew of the cruelty he faced because of a difference that didn't show, about his love for his mother and resentment towards his father, about how he had cried and screamed for Vulcan, and about the day he embraced his human side.

Spock knew about his mother, about Frank, about the drugs and alcohol, about the work he took in the cities, the car, about all the laws he broke, and about all the blame he took. How he felt too much.

They now knew every flaw and weakness the other had.

And neither of them ran.

Spock allowed a thought to cross the bridge that now held their souls together. "You endured so much, ashayam, you are strong." His tone carried no pity, only admiration.

Then the silent veil of understanding fell again, no words pierced it, but rather thoughts that both men were to exhausted to contain.

Eventually Jim looked up at Spock and words fell out again.

"Jim, you are beautiful. You are illogical, but genius. You are ice and hell fire. You are calm and furious. Space is infinite, without ending, so that if we have no anchor we may float away and become lost. But you are like the sun, like the moon, and you hold me down. You are my t'hy'la"

And he smiled. It was pained and broken, but it was sincere and beautiful, and, god, it was like the definition of a phoenix.

James Tiberius Kirk was rising from the ashes, but he wasn't doing it alone.


End file.
